


in for a pound of flesh

by ForeverAlone5



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abigail Hobbs Lives, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Betrayal, Blood, Blood and Violence, Drama, Episode AU: s02e13 Mizumono, Episode: s02e13 Mizumono, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Kissing, Love, M/M, Romance, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:15:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28374522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForeverAlone5/pseuds/ForeverAlone5
Summary: Sitting there in that cell, the suffocating three walls and metal bars, only fueled his grief and rage against Hannibal. And as each person slipped away from him, the tenuous relationships he had already struggled to build over the years, it left him with only Hannibal in his corner. And it was Hannibal that he turned his rage against, his grief, his fury.Or Mizumono if Bryan Fuller and NBC weren'tcowards.
Relationships: Abigail Hobbs & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham & Abigail Hobbs, Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 68





	in for a pound of flesh

**Author's Note:**

> based on [my own fucking post](https://slowlyfadingaway5.tumblr.com/post/638330707945619456/when-will-someone-write-a-s2ep13-mizumono-au) because I have to do everything around here, apparently.
> 
> _In for a penny, in for a pound: used to express someone's intention to complete an enterprise once it has been undertaken, however much time, effort, or money this entails  
>  Pound of flesh: something that is owed needs to be paid back at every cost.  
> Malaphor: a mixture of two aphorisms, idioms, or clichés also called an idiom blend _

Will’s heart pounds in his chest, not panicked but still full of adrenaline. Despite all that, he feels calm. He’s made his decision. Surprisingly not difficult after all the indecision he’s put himself through the last couple of weeks.

Seeing Alana and Jack’s cars in Hannibal’s driveway only cements it. The fact that the two of them had never fully believed him, keeping him at arm’s length, as a tool, and only seeing, understanding, in the last moment. Everything Will planned has been torn apart by those two. And the truth, stripped bare, will remain.

Hannibal’s true self will be seen tonight.

He makes his way through Hannibal’s house. Familiar yet not. He’s only been here a handful of times. Some of those times may not have been invited. But he still feels like he knows this place like the back of his hand.

His fingers tighten on the gun as he steps forward, deeper, closer, into the lion’s den and into the belly of the beast.

The way to the dining room is remarkably straightforward. The familiar path takes him to the heart of the home, the kitchen. The hearth of Hannibal’s home. The place where all his meals, his planning takes place. His evil lair, Will thinks hysterically.

Outside, the rain pours, heavy and thunderous as Nature attempts to batter through humanity. The noise is distant to Will, a buzzy, faraway sound that he barely registers as blood rushes through his ears, pounding and dizzying.

It’s much different than when he killed Tier. Nothing like it all. Then he had been calm, aware, and anticipatory for Hannibal and what would happen next. Here, he doesn’t know what to expect, _who_ to expect, or even what he wants to expect.

The last dinner with Hannibal had only edged him forward into _actually_ killing Freddie, the realization that Hannibal recognized Will’s deceit pushing him off the ledge. Will had to make sure that Jack thought that he was still his man. When he killed Freddie, her death had been for _himself_ , not Hannibal, not whatever plan or vision that he had for Will.

Freddie had been a thorn in his side for months, and relief only washed over him when he finally killed her, ending her silver, trashy tongue once and for all. There was no tableau, no decorating her body, no art. Freddie Lounds didn’t deserve that, didn’t deserve to be elevated into any type of art.

She was lesser than that. Didn’t merit any sort of memorial. Barely good enough for his dogs to eat, and even that was tenuous. But he had to get rid of the evidence somehow.

Will thought, then, after killing Freddie, to go to Hannibal, to take his offer and leave a note and slip away into the dead of night. But he hesitated at the last moment, taking one last night with his dogs, his loyal supporters, the ones who actually loved him from the moment they met to now, where Will doesn’t know what will happen next.

Then Jack forced Will's hand.

Will can’t help but curse Jack for ever bringing Will back into this hellhole, but he can only thank him for even introducing him and Hannibal together. It’s a precarious balance that Will doesn’t want to think about.

Tables and chairs are broken apart, a tornado having been blown through Hannibal’s usually tidy home. Will takes care not to slip through the viscera and mess that’s littered across the floor, the walls, dripping down slowly from the ceiling. The thought of what ( _who_ , his mind hisses) it is has his heart in his throat, and he swallows tightly. He doesn’t know if he really wants to know if Jack or Hannibal was victorious in the end.

He doesn’t know who he wants to see standing on the other side. Victorious and reigning supreme.

Will shudders, the cold seeping in. He hasn’t been paying attention to it as he walked through the house, more focused on getting to Hannibal’s house and— and—

He doesn’t know what else.

His hold on the gun is steady even if the rest of him feels like he’s falling apart. The cold and the emotions whirling just like the storm outside. Will makes sure that his shot is clear, straightforward an,d steady, gun drawn up ready to take the shot.

If he _will_ shoot is still up in the air.

Blood seeps out the pantry door and Will clenches his jaw as he steps forward with trepidation. His breaths come out uneven and staggered as fear fills him slightly, something has happened and he doesn’t know what is on the other side of the door. He steps hesitantly towards the pantry door, steps tense but sure.

Eyes darting around, he can’t find Hannibal and he doesn’t really know if he wants to find Jack if that means that Hannibal is dead. His heart clenches tightly and he freezes, beating heavily in his chest. Hair pricks up on the nape of his neck, the distinct feeling of being watched surrounding him.

Will whirls around, and his eyes widen, the name, “Abigail,” slipping from his lips in a breathless whisper. His hold on his gun loosens, lowers, slips free, and he steps forwards even as Abigail steps back.

She looks… above all else, healthy. Fear swims in her blue eyes, blown wide and full of terror. Tear streaks are evident, sliding down her cheeks. Her hair is slicked back, shorter. The scar on her neck is nearly faded, a ghost of her past still haunting her even as she wears it free and without embarrassment. She’s crying, been crying, frozen in shock and shaking. But Will can’t focus on that at the moment, mind still struggling to process this development.

He focuses on the part that she’s _here_ , alive and well. All under Hannibal’s machinations, of course, but he can’t even seem to begrudge Hannibal for keeping this under wraps right now. Not when Abigail is _here_ and _alive_.

She looks nothing like how he remembers her, when he dips into his stream and casts his reel in the water. Smiling and happy in his mind’s eye. Here, she’s terrified and aching to scream. But she’s here. She’s here, alive and well, against what he initially believed. Alive, healthy, whole. And Will _sees_ , he understands.

He gives in.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” she pleads to him, begging for him to understand, to listen, to _see_ and that’s all it takes for him to stride forward and crush her in a hug.

Abigail resists, struggles in his arms, breath hitching in fear. It stabs Will in the heart that she distrusts him so easily, but he only hugs her tighter, crushing her to his chest and hearing her heart pound with life. Her arms are crushed awkwardly between both their chests, and her breath hitches, ragged and tattered.

Will shushes her, soothing and soft, comforting her with gentle swaying. Slowly he feels her relax, her arms wiggle out and hug him back, hesitant but not resistant. Will smiles at that, feeling one small tear slip free. She’s back. Abigail, the one he thought he lost in the games that Hannibal forced him to play. His _daughter_. Relief only continues to spread as love and affection tightens his hold on her.

He lets her go, one hand holding her upper arm and the other cupping her cheek. His thumb strokes her cheek lovingly and he smiles at her, sad and forlorn. Abigail is alive, but he doesn’t know if he will be by the end of this.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” she whispers again, closing her eyes and soaking in Will’s comforting gestures. “So I did what he told me.” Abigail whimpers at the admission, shaking and holding back sobs.

He hushes her once more, bringing her in for another tight hug. He strokes her hair and she clings to him tightly, trying to get all the comfort she can derive from this hug. She’s just as touchstarved as he is and Will has to wonder what Hannibal did to manage to fake her death so convincingly. That Abigail trusts him so deeply.

The thought of Hannibal makes his heart twitch; the sting of regret pricks him acutely. He thinks of all the missed opportunities for family that he could’ve had with Abigail, the moments they could’ve shared and rewritten and made with one another.

Her loss had hit him acutely, the loss of a daughter he had already struggled to accept ripped from his arms by someone he had trusted so much. It was why he had concocted this stupidly brave plan with Jack. The need for justice and revenge hacking away at Will against Hannibal for taking his daughter away from him.

Will knows that eventually, one day, he would have forgiven Hannibal for framing him, for the encephalitis, for making him think he lost his mind. For all the bad Hannibal had done to Will, he still had been there for Will, an anchor in those last months even as everyone else demanded something from him. Hannibal only stood as his balance against the storm.

It was Abigail that had been the final straw. The thing that twisted Will away from Hannibal and into himself, stripping away his final defense. It was Abigail. Abigail that made Will realize how much Hannibal liked to play with lives, his own included surprisingly, how he used people as things, pawns, to sate his curiosity. Abigail that helped Will realize that Hannibal doesn’t see things the way he does.

Sitting there in that cell, the suffocating three walls and metal bars, only fueled his grief and rage against Hannibal. And as each person slipped away from him, the tenuous relationships he had already struggled to build over the years, it left him with only Hannibal in his corner. And it was Hannibal that he turned his rage against, his grief, his fury.

Hannibal had stripped away every fortification that Will had raised up over the years, torn them down like a tsunami against a small town. He had left Will with no defense, no way of covering himself in the same shields that he used for decades.

Will had to change, to adapt, just like Hannibal had tried to force him to do. Transform into something else, something that Will had been desperate to keep away. Will was a new creature that transformed into something that Hannibal will never be able to truly predict.

A monster.

Just as beastly as Hannibal. Or maybe even worse.

But as Will shushes Abigail’s sobs, wiping away her falling tears, he feels the anger, the grief, fall away like soft petals drifting in the wind. She came back to him, to them. Hannibal had given her back to him, to Will. Their daughter. She was never dead to begin with.

And just like that, forgiveness blooms like a wilted rose.

Hannibal had faked Abigail’s death, the realization comes to him in a flurry of thoughts. To give her a new life away from scrutiny, from prying eyes and peeping toms and hungry sharks. The affection he has for Abigail surges anew even as the hurt stabs him in the chest. She figured out a way to live, to rise above the others without Will but with Hannibal. She didn’t need Will.

His life would have never been enough for her, nor for Hannibal. The amount of publicity he already lived through and would probably still go through after this stint. He doesn’t blame Abigail for leaving anymore, not when he sees how his life was counterintuitive to hers, damaging to her.

“Where is he?” Will asks gently, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs, and Abigail’s blue eyes shift behind him.

His skin pricks with gooseflesh as the darkness looms behind him and he closes his eyes. Will purses his lips, leaving a ghost of a kiss on Abigail’s forehead.

“You were supposed to leave,” Will whispers, sharp and ragged. He rests his head on top of Abigail’s head, eyes closed tight to ward off the rain of tears that threaten to stream down his face.

Hannibal was supposed to leave and then Will would find him, chase him until the ends of the earth to see him again. There was really no other plan apart from that, but he knows that he would find Hannibal, that they would see each other again. He knows that he doesn’t want to see him encaged and lobotomized, a lesser form than what Will knows to be a monster. Not anymore, not with Abigail back from the dead.

Will exhales slowly, lets go of Abigail and turns around.

And, _oh_ , the sight that greets Will punches him hard in the chest.

Hannibal stands tall, white shirt bloodied and lip bruised. He stares at Will, chin held high and back standing straight. A regal monster. He looks every bit the beast and demon that Will knows him to be, that Will has finally seen.

But what really hurts is the utter betrayal in Hannibal’s eyes, the complete anguish and agony that he so openly expresses. Hannibal has always been a master of control, able to handle and manage every single expression he wants to show.

This is him ripped apart, flayed open and public for the whole world to see, and Will did that to him.

Will wants to scream that he didn’t want this, that he just wanted a family, someone to really understand and see him in a way that doesn’t make them recoil out of disgust or fear. Not mind games and mutual destruction through manipulation.

“We couldn’t leave without you,” Hannibal says, and that’s it. Will can’t take it anymore, the stupidity behind both their actions, the recklessness, the fact that Will could’ve been with Abigail _and_ Hannibal if one of them even bothered to open their mouths and said something.

He gives in.

Hannibal reaches up to cup Will’s cheek, reverent and careful. Will closes his eyes, leaning into the touch. His hand is warm and large against Will, steady and anchoring. Will brings his own hand up to rest over Hannibal’s, a wisp of a kiss against Hannibal’s palm, and the other man hesitates slightly, his fingers flexing against Will’s cheek, obviously not expecting that reaction.

And Will? Will is tired of fighting.

He lunges forward, and the glint of a curved knife catches his eye when he glances down for a second. Hannibal is ready to attack, to main, to _rip_. He must’ve planned to gut Will before Will kissed him. Now he’s changing his plans, changing and adapting to what Will is doing.

He grabs the front of Hannibal’s shirt, fisting it and pulling him forward. The clash of teeth on teeth is painful and dangerous. There’s a killer in his hands, but Will only gentles, lips pushing insistently on Hannibal.

It’s a mockery of a kiss, a facsimile of one. But a kiss nonetheless. And Will _aches_.

Hannibal tenses, unsure of Will's intentions and the knife slides up but when the kiss only presses on, getting hungrier and hungrier with every growing second, Hannibal relaxes into it, returning the kiss just as fierce, tender and sweet.

Will smiles against Hannibal’s lips, licking at the traces of blood intermingling against the taste of salt and skin. Hannibal gives as good as Will, chasing the taste of him with his tongue, teeth biting and almost chewing at Will, hungry and desperate. Will hugs Hannibal close, relaxes the hand that’s fisted in Hannibal’s shirt, sliding it down his chest and over his arm, petting and gentling.

He wraps his hand gently around Hannibal’s wrist and _yanks_.

The knife slices through his shirt and skin as easily as melted butter. He twists Hannibal’s hand, maneuvering the knife with it, and jerking the blade to the side to worsen the wound. Just as quickly, he wrenches the blade out of him and the knife clatters to the ground, echoing in the quiet of the kitchen.

The pain is ruthless, throbbing and hot as blood gushes out of his stomach. He covers it feebly with one hand, clinging weakly to Hannibal as he holds him up. Will wonders if this is how his fish feel when he catches them, torn apart and gapingly open.

Hannibal gasps into his mouth and rips himself apart from Will’s grip, eyes blown wide with rage and devastation. He holds Will by his shoulders, eyes darting down to the injury on his stomach up to his eyes, shaking Will as if he were a fool.

“What did you do?” he demands, desperate and edging on a roar. “What did you _do_?”

“I think,” Will pants out, a twisted smile grimacing on his face, “you mean… what did _you_ do?”

Hannibal glowers at him, hands flexing open and closed, clawing at Will’s wet shirt, soaked in water and blood. The monster is there, bursting at the seams with rage and fury.

Will doesn’t really get it. He did what Hannibal wanted. So what if Hannibal didn’t get to stab him, Will still got stabbed in the end, gasping and writhing in agony, choking on his own blood. It’s just not Hannibal’s design anymore. Nor is it Will’s.

It’s _theirs_.

Will stumbles back when Hannibal abruptly lets him go, blood spurting out of his wound like a cannon. He staggers, his back hits the wall. Abigail screams his name, horror bouncing off the walls and terror in her face. He winces, he hadn’t meant for Abigail to see this, to be reminded of that night once again.

That night that they were all together again, alone with a dying body but united for the first time. A parallel of now, where they are together, alone but with three fallen and torn apart once again. All at the machinations of the same man.

But this time Will takes a stab at control. Pun intended.

Abigail skids towards Will’s fallen body, dropping down to her knees next to Will’s gutted body. She presses her hands over his wound, trying desperately to stop the blood, pleading and begging to him and Hannibal softly.

“Time has reversed,” Hannibal says, voice etched with heartbreak and cracking slightly as he watches Abigail fruitlessly try to save Will. Will stares up at Hannibal, watching. “The teacup that I’ve shattered has come together. A place was made for Abigail and you, Will. Do you understand? A place was made for all of us. Together. I wanted to surprise you… and you… you wanted to surprise me. I let you know me. See me. I gave you a rare gift… but you didn’t want it.”

Hannibal’s hand reaches out and he jerks it back, an involuntary reaction. Will doesn’t know what it means, what he wants. Hannibal had already planned to gut Will, the knife ready and sure in his hand. All Will had done was delay it a bit, but it happened in the end.

Will manages to raise a brow in disbelief, “Didn’t I?”

He has accepted it, in the end. The entire plan, this entire scheme was a spark to light his wild, dark musings inside him, the things he was so desperate to hide, the things Hannibal was so eager to strip apart. Tier was just the beginning. Freddie the next. It’s only Hannibal’s fault that it happened like this, a story that turned out to have a twist.

“You would deny me my life,” Hannibal sneers, eyes red in anger. It almost masks the torment that churns in Hannibal’s words, the utter fury at the thought of Will’s betrayal. If Will hadn’t chosen to see, to embrace, he might’ve even believed it. But it only strengthens his decision to do this, to suffer through.

“No—” Will tries to gasp out. It’s hard to breathe in between gasps of blood and chokes of despair, “not your life.”

“My freedom, then,” he spits out. “You would take that from me. Confine me to a prison cell.” Hannibal looks outside the window, deliberation and contemplation in his eyes. The windows are high and wide, open, a gilded cage of Hannibal’s own making. His home already looks like a prison cell, Will thinks bitterly. High walls and suffocating decor. “Do you believe you can change me… the way I changed you?”

“I already did.”

“Fate and circumstance has returned us to this moment… when the teacup shatters. I forgive you, Will. Will you forgive me?”

“I already have,” Will breathes out, interrupting, his words raspy and wispy. His eyes flicker to Abigail’s, whose own eyes are blown wide with panic and fear, and then back to Hannibal’s, pleading with him to understand.

He’s forgiven Hannibal already, when he gave back Abigail to Will, when he remade the teacup and time reversed, just for that one second. They were a family, a loving one, just for one second.

But the teacup has shattered again.

Somehow, Hannibal looks like the one who was gutted, which offends Will considering _he’s_ the one that has an open door to all his guts right now.

Hannibal looks between Will and Abigail, indecision, for the first time warring in his eyes. There is desperation there that has peaked farther than Will has ever seen. Something more is at play behind those wild eyes, something half formed and half baked as Hannibal’s eyes linger on Abigail.

Will’s eyes widen when he realizes that Hannibal planned to kill Abigail, in the same way that Garett Jacob Hobbs did to her. But Will changed that again, with his own decisions, the way that he forgave Hannibal, the way that he kissed Hannibal, hot and desperate and tinged with love.

Hannibal doesn’t know what to do. He’s already distraught, at Will’s prior betrayal, at having gutted Will by proxy but not directly. Hannibal had a plan, and Will fucked it up. Just like he did when he first met Will.

There is fire in Will’s eyes even as he bleeds out on Hannibal’s kitchen floor. Will watches the man that he had just kissed fighting internally within himself about what to do next. Will had thrown a proverbial wrench in Hannibal’s plans, and he was enjoying watching Hannibal battle with himself to try and figure out a way out of this mess.

It’s a vindictive glee that holds Will’s attention even as the storm rages louder and louder outside. Will _has_ changed Hannibal, even if that’s just in his plans for tonight. He’s changed him and torn apart Hannibal’s human mask just as he had done to Will.

Let _him_ feel betrayal for once, let _Hannibal_ feel isolated and disregarded and unloved and thrown aside for a plan to be met. Let Will stew in victory for once. As painful as it feels.

Hannibal can only watch helplessly, eyes flitting between Will bleeding out on the ground and Abigail, desperate and pleading. Will can tell that he’s at a loss for words, for actions, truly having been unable to predict Will.

Will’s eyes flicker to the fallen knife. It’s curved, a hunting knife. Then down to his wound. It’s extensive, bleeding freely between Abigail’s hands and his own. Will’s stomach spasms in pain as his body tries to heal and recuperate the lost blood.

His eyes wander back up to Hannibal, more importantly to Hannibal’s hands. A previous surgeon, Will thinks, and Hannibal must’ve known exactly how he would’ve gutted him, wrenching apart his guts and ensuring maximum punishment but still allowing Will to leave.

Will’s eyes flit back to his own wound, etched out in his own hand. It’s messy, covered in his still spilling blood. Intestines feeling like they’re falling out with each breathless gasp. He doesn’t know if he will survive this, if the way he gutted himself will ensure a chance at survival.

He doesn’t know if he wants that either. Will doesn’t know what he wants where Hannibal is concerned anymore. Once he thought that he would want a family, perhaps even _with_ Hannibal, but fear had tempered that desire. And soon it was game after game to even try and live and survive his life.

When Will looks back to Hannibal, he knows that Hannibal is thinking the exact same thing, glaring at the wound with disgust and desolation.

“Why?” Hannibal manages to whisper, word coming out deafening in the quiet of the room hiding behind regret and remorse swirling behind dark eyes. If he could lick at his wounds, then Will is sure that Hannibal would be right now. He looks like a wild thing, Will muses, blood streaked and beastly. The mask torn to shreds, every emotion on display.

It’s oddly disconcerting to see, but something Will takes pride in.

 _Will_ did that. _Will_ made Hannibal lose his words, his footing, his confidence. He wonders what Hannibal is thinking right now, if he thinks that Will was attempting suicide when he threw himself upon Hannibal’s knife.

It’s certainly dramatic enough, something Hannibal must appreciate, given how much drama he’s written into Will’s life already. And how much he enjoys opera and mythology. Tragedies make the best stories after all.

“Because…” Will gasps between words, groaning in pain, “I was… curious….”

Hannibal only looks more gutted yet somehow oddly proud at his words. Closing his eyes and turning his head just like when Will put the gun against Hannibal’s head that one night. A flinch and a psychological twist of a knife.

It’s interesting that Will is the one that can torment Hannibal emotionally now when Hannibal has been doing that to Will for months and actually stabbed Will, however indirectly. How Will is the one capable of inflicting any sort of damage against Hannibal’s otherwise sustainable shields.

He tears himself away from Hannibal’s suffering. Only so much he can handle in that torn expression. He turns back to their daughter, so panicked and terrified. A mix of him and Hannibal in those wide blue eyes.

Will smiles gently at Abigail, a hand covering hers as she desperately tries to staunch the flow of blood. Her eyes are open wide with fear, anger, desperation. She’s pleading with him, sobbing for him to stay awake and to Hannibal to help.

He reaches up, arm weak, and tries to tuck a piece of stray hair behind her ear. The strand falls limply back against her cheek, unable to be tucked behind without an ear. His smile falls slightly, flat and guilty at the poignant reminder of what she lost.

“Abigail,” he rasps out, hand cupping her cheek and wiping away tears, “Abigail.” He hushes her gently when she sobs louder. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Hey, hey.” He forces her to pay attention, blue eyes on blue, intently staring at her to quiet her sobbing.

Hannibal stares, almost unseeingly, standing above the two of them, completely lost on what to do next. It’s not a good look on the man and Will feels a spasm of pain in his heart at successfully tearing apart Hannibal when he’s sure that had been Hannibal’s plan for _him._

Will forces himself not to look at the other man, not wanting to see any more of the shell shock despair painted on his regal face even as his insides squirm with vindication and guilt. It’s a heady feeling, the responsibility of being the one who put those expressions on Hannibal’s face. He focuses instead on Abigail, their daughter, looking exactly how young she is as fear controls her actions.

“Will, _please_ ,” Abigail begs, hands pushing harder on the stab wound that he winces.

Will shakes his head weakly, giving her another smile. “Abigail,” he says softly, staring at her seriously. She stares at him, blue eyes wide with fear and filled with tears, “Abby, look at me. Listen, _listen_ to me, Abigail. Are you listening?” He waits for her to nod before he continues, serious, “Save yourself, kill them all.” His eyes flicker over to Hannibal, a challenge and a plea all at once.

Abigail shudders, sniffling, and nods, determined. She pulls off from Will shakily, hands still trembling and streaked with blood. She stands up, steeling herself, shoulders back and head straight even as tears stream down her face. And for a moment, Will can see the influence that Hannibal’s had on her, the confidence and will to go on even as her plans go up in smoke.

She wipes away her tears, streaking blood ( _his_ blood, his mind hisses) across her cheeks, and goes back to Hannibal. She lays a cautious hand on the other man’s shoulder, whispering and gentling even as Hannibal glowers down despondently at Will in total heartbreak.

He doesn’t know what Abigail plans to do, or if Hannibal decides to kill her too. He doesn’t know if Jack makes it out alive. He doesn’t know if Alana has been picked up by the paramedics yet. If the paramedics have even made it to the house. If sirens echo, reverbeting in the house loudly.

He doesn’t know what happens next. He doesn’t know if he’ll make it to the next day, or even the next hour. The ravenstag trots into the chaos torn kitchen, stamping his hooves and snorting in anger. Will only smirks at it viciously, groaning in pain as his stomach spasms again.

The ravenstag trots closer, lowering himself down to his knees. The snout snuffs against his legs, sniffling like one of his dogs begging for a treat or snuffling when they know that Will isn’t feeling alright, and Will smiles feebly at the reminder.

The monster rests his head against Will’s stomach over the gaping wound, and it’s gentle, warm and large atop of him, and closes his eyes. Will gives into the pain, letting his eyes flutter closed and the blood rush out.

He lets it go away and wades…

...back …

……….into…

...the stream….

**Author's Note:**

> I probably won't continue this, so who knows what happens next. Certainly not me. Is this in character? I don't know. Don't ask me.


End file.
